


and latkes to eat

by shallowlives



Series: The Decaydance Weightloss Competition Universe [1]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anorexia, Canon Jewish Character, Eating Disorders, Gabe having an eating disorder because it b like that, Hanukkah, Latkes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28058694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shallowlives/pseuds/shallowlives
Summary: “Pete?” Gabe asks tentatively, and his boyfriend glances up. “What are you doing?”“Isn’t it obvious?” He stops shredding for a moment and grins, motioning with the chunk of onion to another bowl, this one clear glass, of already-peeled potatoes soaking in water next to him. “You told me it’s the first night of Chanukkah tonight. I wanted to surprise you by making latkes.”“Oh…” Gabe gulps, tugging the sleeves of his jacket over his wrists as he stares point-blank at the bowl of potatoes. “That’s… so nice. You don’t have to. Really.”
Relationships: Gabe Saporta/Pete Wentz
Series: The Decaydance Weightloss Competition Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107443
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	and latkes to eat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mikeyskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikeyskies/gifts).



> This fic is a gift for the lovely, amazing mikeyskies. Happy Chanukkah, here's some fucked-up eating disorder wentzporta shit!
> 
> **Hotlines and resources for eating disorders: https://edresources.carrd.co/**

When the door to the apartment swings open, the first thing to hit Gabe’s nose is the fresh, organic scent of raw onion. Fear clenches its claws, squeezing at his throat. It can only mean one thing; Pete is cooking.

Rather than take off his shoes, he slams the front door shut and hurries to the kitchen. Pete’s sitting at the small wooden table shoved into the corner, shredding an onion back against a metal grater back-and-forth over a metal bowl. He sniffles, eyes rimmed with red from the smell of onion.

“Pete?” Gabe asks tentatively, and his boyfriend glances up. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He stops shredding for a moment and grins, motioning with the chunk of onion to another bowl, this one clear glass, of already-peeled potatoes soaking in water next to him. “You told me it’s the first night of Chanukkah tonight. I wanted to surprise you by making latkes.”

“Oh…” Gabe gulps, tugging the sleeves of his jacket over his wrists as he stares point-blank at the bowl of potatoes. “That’s… so nice. You don’t have to. Really.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Pete says, looking back down and continuing to shred the onion. “I’ll do all the work, you sit back and relax.”

On their own, peeled and naked and white, the potatoes seem harmless. But soon they’ll be shredded, mixed with onion and egg and flour, dropped into a pan of sizzling oil. Within minutes, the calories will easily multiply.

“Oh, and I bought applesauce and sour cream,” Pete adds with a smile. “That’s what you put on top of latkes, right?”

Gabe’s mouth grows dry as he continues to let his eyes linger on the soaking potatoes. “Yep.”

The onion shreds, falling apart against the sharp, raised ridges of the grater.  _ Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. _ Pete sniffles.  _ Scritch-scratch. _ “Can you get me a paper towel? I think I’ve got tears in my eyes.”

Gabe blinks, finally tearing his eyes from the potatoes. “Oh, yeah.” He reaches over and rips a sheet off the paper towel holder, then heads to the table and leans over to dab it gently at the corners of Pete’s eyes. “You really didn’t have to do this, Pete. I could’ve just made the latkes myself.”  _ And not have peeled as many potatoes. And only bought applesauce, not sour cream. And made them after I had fasted for at least twenty-four hours, if not forty-eight. _

“Seriously, it’s alright.” After Gabe finishes wiping the tears from Pete’s eyes, he finishes up peeling the chunk of onion.  _ Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch _ before the last bits fall away and he reaches into the glass bowl for a potato.

“Do we really need  _ that _ many potatoes?” Gabe asks. He squeezes his legs together, trying to imagine how good that’ll feel when the fat there transforms into a thigh gap. That is, only if he doesn’t eat too many latkes. “It’s just the two of us.”

“Doesn’t matter, we’ll eat a lot anyway if they turn out good.” Pete starts grating the potato.  _ Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. _ “ I’ve got the recipe printed-out over there.” He nods toward the counter.  _ Scritch-scratch. _ “You can take a look at it and tell me if it sounds right. You have more experience with this than me, after all.”

“Sure.” Gabe turns around and practically speed-walks to the kitchen counter, snatching up the recipe sheet. Right at the top, clear and spelled-out for him, is the number of calories in each serving. One latke is one-hundred. On its own, it sounds just fine, but Gabe knows it’s a lie. They’ll add up. One will become two will become four will become eight and he won’t be satiated until they’re all gone, each one topped with more sour cream than the last. Is one hundred even accurate? Not in all that disgustingly greasy oil, no way. Just breathing in the smell would probably cause him to put on five pounds.

He crumples the paper between his fingers.  _ Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. _ That’s probably what Gabe’s nails will sound like against the back of his throat later tonight, if he’s too impatient and chooses the purging route rather than a few days of miserably restricting his calories even more so than usual.

He should have never moved in with Pete.

“Gabe?” Pete’s voice breaks him out of his haze.

“Uh, recipe looks fine.” Gabe hurriedly puts it back down on the counter, watching the bones in his hand flex as he does. They could be so much more prominent, so much more spindly. He used to be able to pinch the hard, thin bone between his fingers. Now all he can pinch is fat. “I’m gonna go for a run before dinner.”

Pete turns around to glance out the window. “It’ll be dark soon. Didn’t you go for a run this morning, anyway?”

“Right, I forgot. I’ll just take a quick shower.”

_ “Nooo,” _ Pete whines. “Wait. I’ll take a shower with you after dinner. It’ll be much more fun than if you were alone--”

“No,” Gabe says abruptly. He turns his back to Pete before he can read the expression on his face. “I want to shower alone tonight.” He would usually add that he’d make it up to Pete in some way later, but considering how much his stomach will bulge with food after consuming all those disgusting, horrifying latkes, he’d be absolutely  _ humiliated _ for Pete to see him like  _ that, _ as the person he truly is; a greedy, uncontrolled pig. In fact, Pete would break up with him on the spot. Gabe knows it. Five pounds of weight gain and he’d be atrocious enough for Pete to run and never look back, just like he deserves.

“Alright,” Pete says. _ Scritch-scratch.  _ “Don’t take too long.”

“I’m not in the shower for  _ that _ long,” Gabe protests. “But I’ll try to be quick.”

“Debatable.”

_ Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. _ The sound of shredding potatoes fills Gabe’s ears, a nightmare that refuses to leave. He rushes out of the kitchen and to the bathroom. Although silence fills the space as soon as he shuts the door, he can still smell faint traces of the pungent onion. Damn New York and its small-ass apartments.

The clothing practically drops off Gabe’s body. After unbuttoning his shirt, the sleeves slide off his arms as smooth as water. His lucky pair of skinny jeans, now more baggy than anything, fall to his feet as soon as he pushes them below his hips. If he continues to lose weight, he’ll have to start wearing a belt with them. Or buy a whole new pair altogether.  _ Good, _ he thinks. _ That’s the way it should be. That’s the way I should be. _

He leans over the tub and switches on the water. It rains down, pattering against the smooth bottom of the tub and the granite wall. A drop hits his arm, causing him to shiver. Icy. Just how he likes it.

He has to be careful getting into the shower. Too fast, and he’ll slip, his reactions too delayed to catch himself. Even when he gets in, he has to steady himself, one hand on the shower wall as the freezing water pelts down and turns his skin cold and white. Rather than trying to keep himself from shivering, he welcomes it; after all, it burns calories. That’s why he doesn’t shower with Pete anymore. Warm showers are overrated, anyways.

Even though he did run this morning, as Pete had pointed out, Gabe doesn’t feel much like reaching for the shampoo or body wash. He just stands there, arms crossed and shivering, letting the frigid liquid pour onto him. Bored after a minute, he lets his fingers trace over his ribcage. If he sucks his stomach in, he can really feel it. Even the edges of his hip bones are starting to stick out.

It’s still not enough, though, When he releases his inhale, all the fat drops back. A layer that remains to be peeled off him like a snakeskin and reveal his full potential. If he was skinnier, he’d be able to jump on Nate’s drums like William does on Butcher’s without fear of it crashing down underneath all the weight. He’d be able to prance around shirtless as much as he wanted, his flat stomach and stick thighs inducing wet dreams in every single person watching in the audience.

Everyone would call him a model. Everyone would post pictures of him on their blogs, hailing him as thinspo. Everyone would worry. And Gabe would say it’s all natural, that of course he’d be so thin when he’s 6’4 and his career is practically running around a stage every day multiple times a year. He’d be compared to the likes of Ryan and William and every other lanky boy on the label. Gabe would finally have the body he’d be proud to see immortalized on posters. And most importantly, Pete would finally have the boyfriend he deserved.

If only it wasn’t for the latkes. Gabe hadn’t been planning on eating dinner tonight. He was going to tell Pete he’d already gotten a big lunch with Ryland or Alex or someone after a nonexistent songwriting session, but that excuse would never fly now.

_ Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. _ Gabe looks down and realizes he’s scratching his arm. He recrosses his arms and tries not to think about it as he shivers a few moments more in the shower before eventually getting out and wrapping a towel around his waist, another around his shoulders like a shawl. He stares himself down with dead, dull eyes in the mirror as he tries to tell himself he doesn’t need to shiver anymore now. But he keeps shivering, of course.

A sharp rap at the bathroom door causes him to jump. “Gabe! Hurry up, I’m halfway through frying the latkes.”

“Already?” Gabe calls out, pushing the towels off himself and grabbing his not-really-skinny jeans off the ground. “It’s only been ten minutes.”

“No, you were in the shower for at least half an hour.” Pete sighs. “Like always. You’re going to use up all the fucking hot water in the building, you know.”

“I don’t use hot water!” Gabe defends, pulling his unbuttoned shirt back over his shoulders. After fumbling with the buttons with trembling hands for a few moments, he gives up and just leaves it open.

“That’s bullshit,” Pete says. “No way were you in the shower for thirty minutes without--”

Gabe flings open the bathroom door. “Well, I was. Cold showers have lots of health benefits.”

“Wait, you were taking a  _ cold _ shower for  _ that _ long?” Before Gabe can walk past him, Pete grabs his arm to feel the temperature of his skin. “You feel like a fucking vampire. And you’re as pale as one, too. Why the hell would you do that to yourself?”

“It definitely woke me up,” Gabe says, smiling weakly. “Don’t worry about it. You should probably be watching the latkes before they burn.”

“Right,” Pete says hesitantly, taking a moment to release Gabe’s arm before stepping back. His eyes drop from his boyfriend’s hollow cheeks to his clearly-defined collarbone to the lines of his ribs below his chest, where his gaze lingers.

“What?” Gabe asks, causing Pete’s eyes to snap back up. “See something you like?”

Instead of flirting back, Pete says bluntly, “I should get back to the latkes,” and turns around, walking down the short, narrow hallway to return to the kitchen.

Gabe goes back into the bathroom to try buttoning his shirt again before drying his hair. He’s not worried in the slightest about Pete’s wandering eyes. He’ll forget it within a few minutes, as he always does. After all, Gabe’s an adult male; nobody would ever suspect  _ him _ of having an eating disorder, and normal people, especially as normal as Pete, don’t know the symptoms like he does. Only an anorexic would realize that Decaydance is an ongoing weight loss competition, and that people aren’t vomiting at parties because they’re too drunk or doing jumping jacks in dressing rooms to merely get rid of pent-up nerves.

Not that Gabe knows for sure, though. Nobody ever talks about it. The only evidence is Patrick’s offhand mention he lost five pounds before randomly asking, seemingly jokingly, if Gabe’s ever jealous of Pete’s ex, Mikey. Or William’s eerie casualness handing Gabe a gatorade after overhearing him throwing up when they were on the Sleeping With Giants tour.

If Pete hasn’t caught on by now, he never will. It’s as simple as that.

When Gabe reenters the kitchen, it no longer smells of sharp onion. Instead, the scent of frying latkes wafts around the room. He can hear the sizzle and pop of oil, the  _ plop _ as Pete drops another scoop of the mix of potato into the pan. Fuck, Gabe’s going to gain  _ so _ much weight by morning. And for what, a greasy potato pancake his ancestors have been making for centuries? Fuck that. Gabe would rather celebrate his own weight loss than yet another miracle of his people.

Still, he says, “I’m gonna light the menorah now. Where’s the matches?”

“Junk drawer,” Pete says, pointing with his spatula. Gabe opens the drawer and takes out the matches. The thin silver menorah has already been set up at the window, one candle in the furthest-right candleholder as well as the shamash candle in the center.

Gabe strikes the match and lights the shamash, picking it up and using it to ignite a flame on the one other candle as he sings the three blessings, voice low and melodic.  _ “...asher kideshanu, b’mitzvotav vitzivanu, l’hadlik ner shel Chanukkah. Baruch atah…” _

When he finishes with the shehecheyanu, he stands back, watching the candles flicker.

“I can’t believe it’s our first Chanukkah together,” Pete finally says, after a few moments of marvelling at the light. He flips a latke. “I hope there’s a lot more. Mostly because the latkes are smelling  _ really _ good.”

That mention breaks the serenity of the moment.  _ Right, _ Gabe thinks, still watching the reflection of the candles’ glow in the window.  _ The latkes. _

“I hope so too,” is all Gabe eventually says, before sitting down at the table and checking his cell phone for any texts to distract him again. He has no such luck.

Pete flips another latke before looking over at him concernedly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Gabe says, leaning back in his chair. “Just tired.”

“I thought you took the cold shower to wake yourself up.”

“Well, it didn’t.” Gabe looks back at the menorah, and Pete looks back at the latkes, and they leave it at that for now.

  
  
  
  


Gabe only takes two small latkes, with a sparing amount of applesauce on the side. He cuts them into small pieces.

The candles in the menorah are melting lower, lower.

When Gabe finishes the two latkes, leaving an empty blue paper plate that says  _ Happy Hanukkah! _ with few crumbs and no evidence of applesauce residue, he puts down his fork and tells Pete, “That was super good. Thank you so much for making them, babe.”

Pete, who’s already on his fourth latke, finishes chewing a bite and licks sour cream off the corner of his lip. “You’ve only had two. You can’t be done already.”

Gabe scoffs. “I didn’t have two.”

“I counted,” Pete says. He puts down his fork as well. “”You’ve only eaten two. There’s no way you’re full.”

“It’s not your job to police what I eat. I had a big lunch with Alex anyways, I’ll eat some of the latkes as leftovers tomorrow--”

“I’m not stupid.” Pete says. “Cold showers. Running every single fucking day you’re not out of town. And now you don’t eat anything, not even when I make it for you. For a  _ holiday.” _

“Pete, what the hell are you talking about--”

“I heard the rumors that spread when you fainted on stage a few months ago. I didn’t want to believe it, but since we’ve moved in together…” Pete grows quiet, eyes wide with worry. “I don’t like seeing you do this to yourself, Gabe,” he whispers. “It hurts that  _ this _ is how you see yourself.”

“I see myself completely normally.” And for proof, Gabe picks up his fork and stabs a latke to drop onto his plate. “I’m fine, see? A real anorexic probably wouldn’t be able to do that without having a panic attack.”

Still, Pete’s expression is stiff, his shoulders tense. “I think you should see someone.”

“See someone? Like who?”

“Like a therapist.”

The right candle on the menorah burns out.

“A therapist?” Gabe grabs the applesauce and spoons a drop onto the latke, chuckling. “I don’t think I need a therapist--”

“I’m serious,” Pete affirms. “Look me in the fucking eyes, Gabe, and tell me you’re not killing yourself. You know you are.”

“Pete,” he pleads. “I’m not--”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me that, then.”

Gabe blinks, but he can’t tear his eyes from the applesauce on his latke.

The shamash on the menorah burns out too.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed! I think this was my first ever wentzporta fic so that's pretty cool. Idk if I'll ever write more wentzporta because I'm pretty dedicated to gabilliam... but who knows?
> 
> if you wanna keep up with me or scream at me my twitter is @inpacithicctime and my instagram is @lostinpacithicctime


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